


Revelations

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: Hanzo has only a few soulmate tattoos. When his most recent appears, he cannot figure out who it is for, but he does know one thing: he cannot tell Jesse.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 12
Kudos: 400





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the McHanzo Resonance zine! See the accompanying, beautiful art here: https://twitter.com/conconarts/status/1264639814353248256

“Is this new?”

Hanzo frowns. One of the reasons he frequents this particular salon, other than the fact that he trusts very few people to maintain his undercut properly, is because his usual barber never forces him to engage in small talk. It’s a quality that not nearly enough people have. He meets the barber’s eye in the mirror. “Is what new?”

“This.” The barber taps the back of Hanzo’s neck with his comb. “The tattoo. Didn’t see this the last time you came in.”

“I do not have—” Hanzo’s heart leaps into his throat, cutting off his words as the implications set in.

There is one reason, after all, that he might have a new tattoo that he did not expect.

The barber laughs and taps him again, unaware of Hanzo’s distress. “I’ll be damned,” he says. “Must be new, then! Congrats. Not too big or dark yet, but it’s filling in. You wanna see?”

Numbly, Hanzo nods and takes the hand mirror that is offered to him. The barber spins him around to put his back to the larger mirror and in the double reflection, Hanzo can see the mark. The lines are still faint and it is difficult to make out the details like this, but he can recognize the outline of a yellow flower with thin petals, with a smudge of blue-green beneath it.

“Looks pretty nice,” says the barber, snapping Hanzo out of his thoughts. “Think you know who it’s for?”

“I am not sure,” Hanzo says. He hands back the mirror and stares at his reflection as the barber finally gets to work. 

Hanzo is so absorbed in his thoughts that he does not quite recall the process of getting back to the Watchpoint. He eventually jolts at the sound of his dorm door sealing shut behind him. He blinks at his empty room for a moment or two, then mechanically sheds his coat and boots and steps into the bathroom.

It takes some twisting and maneuvering in the mirror, but he manages to snap a clear photo of the tattoo with his phone. The tattoo consists of two flowers, one in full bloom and the other a half-opened bud below, with innumerable thin, bright yellow petals and dark centers. Their stems are held together with a tie of some sort, clasped with a blue-green stone. The stone might be turquoise, though he is not sure; the flowers are a mystery. He sits on his bed and stares at the photo until the details of it blur before his eyes.

Soul tattoos— _ spontaneous dermal pigmentation _ , if you ask a medical professional—are a tricky business. The definition of a soulmate is a fluid one, depending on cultures and individuals, and it is not always clear which tattoos correlate to which person in one’s life. Sometimes they are obvious, other times less so; it gets confusing when one is in contact with many people or has several tattoos.

Hanzo only has two, himself. One is unusual: the great dragon tattoo spiraling down his arm, signifying the unique bond between himself and his dragons. Everyone in the Shimada clan blessed by such a union had a similar tattoo somewhere. His other is a small feather, resting on the inside of his right forearm below his elbow—he could only bear to look at that one in the past few months. 

Most of his family did not have many tattoos outside of the spirit dragons. Hanzo used to consider it a point of pride for his skin to be as unmarked as it is. Nowadays, it mostly feels like penance. He had long since stopped checking his body for new marks.

He tears his eyes away from the photo, only for his gaze to land on his desk on the other side of the room. A folded bundle of wool rests there: one of McCree’s less favored serapes. He smiles a little to himself, remembering how it had come to be left there a few days prior, before an overwhelming sense of dread turns his stomach to ice.

What is he going to tell McCree?

_ Can  _ he tell McCree?

As if summoned by the simple thought, there is a knock at Hanzo’s door; by the sound, which he has heard over a couple dozen times now, he knows it to be McCree. His stomach sinks further, even as his heart lifts with that fluttery anticipation that he has come to associate with McCree alone.

McCree has the door code, but he still waits for Hanzo to let him in and gives a hat-tip when the door slides open. “Hey, sug,” he says with a crooked grin. 

“Jesse,” Hanzo greets him, startled. “I thought your mission ended tomorrow?”

“Was supposed to, but we managed to wrap up sooner than we thought. Got back in an hour ago or so.” McCree steps into Hanzo’s space and rests his hands on Hanzo’s hips. “And I found myself thinkin’ that four days was a bit too long to go without seein’ you.”

McCree’s flattery rarely fails to make Hanzo flush and this is no exception. He smiles even as he resists the instinct to slap a hand over the back of his own neck. 

McCree dips down for a kiss, which Hanzo eagerly returns. McCree’s fingers stray across the back of his neck and Hanzo stiffens, though he knows the lines of his tattoo are flat to the touch. McCree’s thumb strokes once along his skin, then he draws away. 

“Ready to go now?” he asks. “I haven’t eaten in about twelve hours, so . . .”

Hanzo snorts. “Your poor planning is not my fault,” he says. “Just a moment.”

He digs through his closet until he comes up with a long-sleeved shirt with a high, tight collar—a garment usually worn under his other clothing, but tonight it will have to serve on its own. He is careful to keep McCree in front of him as he changes, neatly hiding the damning mark. He cannot allow something so trivial to destroy what they have.

When they return later and McCree crowds him back into his dorm, hands hot and roaming across his body, Hanzo is quick to flip McCree back against the wall before either of them can undress. McCree, luckily, does not seem to mind.

—

“He has his soulmate tattoo,” says Hanzo.

Mei looks up at him, startled. “He does?”

“I have not seen it. It is on his chest somewhere, but he always keeps it covered.” Hanzo stares into the dark surface of his barely-touched beer, as though alcohol will provide the answers. “He told me when he first propositioned me, in the interest of being honest. We agreed that this was likely temporary. If mine were to show, meaning I had met my mate . . .”

He has seen the others. There are two, one on the back of each of McCree's shoulders: an Egyptian bird that was neither eagle nor owl but some combination of the two, and a vivid orange marigold with a small fan of raven feathers. Each representing old commanders from Overwatch in years past, whom McCree credited with keeping him alive. The last, however, still remains a mystery.

Mei hums, tilting her head at him thoughtfully. She does not speak again for a moment. Hanzo has always appreciated her wisdom and empathy, as well as her willingness to speak up when she deems it appropriate. It is why Hanzo allows himself to be drawn into these outings in Gibraltar, and occasionally trusts her with topics he does not trust with the others. 

On the other hand, though time and teaching have certainly left their mark, Genji has never been too hesitant to speak his mind. Hanzo sometimes regrets talking to him. “And you  _ still  _ have not told him that your mark showed up?”

Hanzo scowls and drinks deeply from his beer. 

Hanzo has tried not to think of his new tattoo, but it is impossible to ignore. Now that he is aware of its presence, he glimpses it every time he passes a reflective surface, just able to catch the edge where it crawls toward the side of his neck. When he thinks about it too long, he can almost feel it burning like a half-healed brand.

It is difficult to hide. During the day is simple enough, even if he had to invest in a larger stock of turtlenecks the day after he discovered it. It is harder, though, when he is part of a team that constantly shares space. Locker rooms are an issue; he can no longer change out of a sweaty training shirt without keeping his back to a wall. He does not trust the rest of the team not to interrogate him and spread the word back to McCree, even if McCree himself is not around. 

McCree is harder still. He, at least, had been honest from the start about hiding a tattoo, and Hanzo did not have to question why he left his shirt on during their more amorous activities. Hanzo had no such excuse, and were he to admit why he stays covered, it would bring everything to an end. After all, there is no reason to continue their relationship once they both know that they are meant to be with other people.

He cannot find it in himself to let that happen.

“I do not even know who it is for,” Hanzo says sullenly once the silence has stretched on too long. “It is too vague.” His intense research over the past days had not helped much. He had confirmed his suspicion about the turquoise stone and the flowers seemed most consistent with black-eyed Susans, but that seemed to mean nothing at all.

“And you don’t think it could be for him?” Mei asks.

“I have no reason to believe it is. And if he believed his was for me, why would he hide it?”

“McCree is a man of many secrets,” Genji adds, gesturing with his fruity mixed drink; the little wooden skewer of cherries threatens to topple out. “You cannot just hide it forever, you know. He is going to suspect very quickly, if he does not already.”

“I am aware of that,” Hanzo snaps. Genji sips his drink, unfazed.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you told him, instead of him finding out some other way?” Mei suggests more gently. “You started dating months ago. Things have changed. And not every soulmate relationship is about romance. Maybe you can have both?”

The words are logical, but Hanzo feels a pang of such absolute  _ wrongness _ that he knows them to be untrue. “No,” he says. “I do not think so.”

“Oh.” Mei rolls her glass between her hands. “But still. It would be best to tell him. It’s obvious that he really cares about you. Fate can be wrong, and some things are worth fighting for.” 

Genji nods his agreement. Hanzo drains his beer.

Despite their advice, Hanzo still does not tell him. 

The days blend into weeks. The tattoo darkens and is complete within that first week, edges sharp and colors vivid against his skin. He spends his days obsessively adjusting his collar to be sure it has not slipped, revealing his shame. He tries to manufacture situations where McCree does not see his bare neck during their intimate moments, but McCree quickly becomes suspicious about being pushed up against walls every time; once or twice he manages to hide in a strategic pillow, but soon enough paranoia overtakes him and he starts avoiding sex entirely. McCree, though he is often disappointed, takes it in stride, and somehow that is worse than if he became upset. 

“Feeling alright, darlin’?” McCree asks one night as they settle into bed, after Hanzo has rebuffed him yet again. 

“I am just tired,” Hanzo answers, gut twisting with the lie.

There is the barest moment of hesitation before McCree settles, arm wrapped tightly around Hanzo’s middle (covered, still dressed, a new habit he has had to develop). “Alrighty,” he says, resting his chin on Hanzo’s head. “Just makin’ sure.”

McCree falls asleep quickly. He admitted he falls asleep more easily with Hanzo beside him. Hanzo is awake for hours yet, staring at McCree’s chest, wishing that the mark hidden there under the worn cotton t-shirt was for him. 

—

The night is quiet.  _ Too quiet _ , by McCree’s assessment; Hanzo privately agrees, but there is no way to know that the silence is an omen. Neither Winston nor Athena have reported any new intelligence, and the ground team confirms a similar lack of activity. Hanzo leans against the railing of the balcony to the old apartment building that is their stake-out spot, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Behind him, McCree leans against the wall, one boot propped against the peeling paint, and leisurely smokes a cigarillo. His hat casts his face in darkness and the smoldering tip of his cigarillo enhances the effect, throwing sharper shadows and warm highlights across his features. The lights and shadows flicker subtly as he works the cigarillo between his lips. 

Hanzo breathes deeply, a slow in and out to diffuse his building impatience. He can smell the sweet scent of cloves and tobacco from McCree’s cigarillo on the night air. Once, the smell used to irritate him; now, though he does not smoke himself, it is a comfort.

Cloth rustles and spurs jingle gently. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?” McCree asks, stopping at Hanzo’s side.

There are many things on Hanzo’s mind nowadays, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Merely tired. I do not like these delays.” 

“I getcha.” McCree loops his free arm around Hanzo’s back, fingers settling in the curve of his waist. It is more touch than either of them usually allows on the field, but Hanzo supposes there is no harm when they are alone. “Just think about goin’ home. Shouldn’t be too late when we get back. Maybe pick up some dinner on our way in, make up a couple of drinks, get real cozy . . .” He dips his head down, brushing a mischievous smirk brush against Hanzo’s ear. “Won’t have time to be bored once I get you in bed.”

Hanzo snorts and playfully shoves him, ignoring a twinge of frustration; seems he’s in for another evening of hiding his tattoo. “You are insatiable. Can you think of nothing else on a mission?”

“Funny you should say that,” says McCree. “I don’t remember you protesting a couple weeks ago, when we snuck into that little office on that stakeout—”

Hanzo laughs outright and shoves him again. McCree’s smirk breaks into a delighted grin. The glow from the cigarillo throws McCree’s dimples into sharper relief than usual, and something about the sight triggers an unexpected wave of fondness.

How is Hanzo meant to give this up for some unidentified soulmate? How can he possibly feel the kind of regard for them that he does for the man in front of him? A tiny  _ defect _ in McCree’s facial topography is enough to make him feel like his heart is too big for his chest, and somehow fate expects him to conjure even a fraction of that affection for someone else.

McCree’s smile falls. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asks, and only then does Hanzo realize the face he must be making.

“It is nothing,” he says again, schooling his features back into something neutral.

McCree seems to think for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, Hanzo, somethin’s been bugging you for a while, hasn’t it?” he says. “What’s going on?” Hanzo starts to deny it again, but McCree grabs his shoulders. “Stop. You’ve been actin’ weird for weeks and it’s freaking me out. It feels like . . .”

His grip on Hanzo’s shoulders goes slack. His intense expression softens into worry. “It’s like you’re tryin’ to get away from me.”

Hanzo grits his teeth and looks away, unable to bear the sadness on McCree’s face. The words claw at his chest, pulling their way up his throat in a bid to be known:  _ I do not know who our tattoos are for, but I do not care. I only want you.  _

He thinks of opening his mouth and letting the confession escape. A sharp swear from Tracer over the comm cuts him off. “Sniper! Get down!”

Hanzo’s body moves before his mind registers the words, but that is still not fast enough. The crack of a gunshot rings out at the same moment he and McCree dive back to the apartment door. Something jerks through his upper back. Pain explodes throughout.

Hanzo’s ears ring and he stumbles, catching himself on the door frame. He reaches for his bow, unthinking, and fire screams through his back and shoulder. He distantly hears himself yell; even further away, McCree’s voice rattles off instructions, the words blurring together in Hanzo’s ears. The dragons writhe under his skin, begging to be released so that they may wreak vengeance on whoever harmed their master, but Hanzo cannot even begin to think of the words to call them forth. Something catches him around the middle before he can fall. McCree’s voice is suddenly much closer. 

“Just hang on, sugar,” McCree says, voice tight. “Mercy’s on her way, we’ll get you out of here—”

“I am  _ fine,” _ Hanzo growls, though the warmth wetting his back and growing tightness of his chest tell him otherwise. 

“Shit, you’re bleeding quick—Ang—!”

“I am here,” Mercy says. Hanzo stumbles a few more steps while Tracer shouts for their evac, and that is the last he remembers.

—

Consciousness is a slippery thing. Hanzo dips in and out of it, aware that he is stuck in that hazy state but unsure of anything else. When he finally gets a grip on reality again, it is dampened by the haze of pain medication and biotics. He is vaguely aware of lying on his stomach on starchy, stiff material; he slowly breathes in and out, then flexes his muscles in turn until he reaches the ones that cause a sharp pain to lance through the right side of his back. His involuntary grunt of pain is followed by the tap of shoes on tile. 

“You awake?” asks Lúcio’s voice somewhere above him. Hanzo grunts again into his pillow, and Lúcio chuckles ruefully. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Just take it easy. You’re gonna be fine, but no need to jump up yet.”

Despite Lúcio’s warning, Hanzo props himself up on his forearms to look around the medbay. He is the only one here other than Lúcio, and predictably, his back protests angrily at the movement. Bandages and tape pull on his skin. 

“What’d I just say?” Lúcio says in exasperation, standing beside Hanzo’s bed. He picks up a tablet from the bedside table and flicks through the readouts. “How are you feeling? Remember what happened?”

“I—yes, I recall. I am fine, I think.”

“Good to hear.” Lúcio tosses the tablet aside again. “Let me give you a quick look, and then you’ve got a guest, if you’re up to it.

“A guest?” Lúcio nods toward something behind Hanzo’s shoulder. He turns to find McCree on the other side of the bed, slumped in a plastic chair. He has his chin propped in his hand in the picture of disinterest, but his eyes are sharp and the corner of his mouth is turned up in a smile. 

Hanzo realizes, too late, that there is nothing covering his tattoo. He slaps his hand over the back of his neck anyway and immediately regrets the strain it puts on his muscles. McCree’s eye tracks the movement. His smile turns rueful.

“Yeah, I saw,” he says. “Sorry.”

Lúcio glances between the two of them, but mercifully does not ask. Perhaps sensing that a private conversation needs to take place, he works quickly in helping Hanzo sit up, checking his bandages, and turning off the biotic field. Hanzo sits through the poking and prodding without looking in McCree’s direction. After a couple of minutes that feel like an eternity, Lúcio announces everything looks as it should and excuses himself, leaving Hanzo and McCree alone.

Hanzo stares at the blanket in his lap. McCree sighs and shifts in his seat. A terse moment passes before McCree finally asks, “How long have you had that?”

Hanzo swallows. “Over a month.”

McCree huffs, something not quite laughter. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised you managed to keep that away from me that long.”

Hanzo turns his head away on the pillows. “Why didn’t you tell me?” McCree asks softly. 

“I could not figure out who it was for,” Hanzo replies. He grips a fistful of the starchy sheets. “And I knew that you already had yours. We knew that this relationship would eventually be doomed to end.” He swallows hard. “I did not want it to.”

“Who says it has to?”

“Please, Jesse,” Hanzo sighs. “Do not patronize me. We discussed this at the beginning. We agreed that—”

“Yeah, well, fuck that,” McCree interrupts with surprising vehemence. “Listen. I need to show you somethin’, alright?” 

Startled, Hanzo can only nod and try to quash the spark of hope in his chest. McCree seems to steel himself, blowing out a sharp breath. He unwraps his serape and drops it into his lap, ends trailing on the floor, and reaches for the top button of his shirt. 

Hanzo is unable to tear his eyes away as McCree determinedly unbuttons his shirt, revealing a widening vee of his chest and the image marking his skin. His soulmate tattoo is unmistakable: an arrow stretching from diaphragm to sternum, its head resting neatly between his clavicles. The shaft is wrapped by two blue serpents descending down its length, their bodies twisted at sharp angles to form square chains—similar to the lightning in Hanzo’s own tattoo, yet also reminiscent of some ancient imagery that he can’t begin to place. An image representative entirely of Hanzo, yet resting on McCree’s skin as though designed for him.

Hanzo tries to speak, only to realize he has forgotten to breathe. He forces his inhale to be steady. “You knew.”

McCree grimaces. “Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Showed up about a week before I asked you out. Wasn’t hard to figure out who it was for. Don’t get the wrong idea,” McCree interjects as Hanzo opens his mouth. “I didn’t ask you out  _ because _ it showed up. More like it . . . kicked my ass into gear. Got me to do something I’d been meanin’ to do for a while.”

He buttons his shirt again. Hanzo aches to reach out and stop him, to trace his fingers down the lines of the tattoo and marvel at the mark, but clenches the sheets tighter instead. “Why would you hide this from me for all these months?”

McCree shifts in his chair. “I . . . Shit, you know how I feel about these things. I already knew I liked you enough, but not everything works out. I wanted to make sure whatever we had was real, not just us stickin’ together because we thought we had to. And, you know, you didn’t have your mark, so I couldn’t confirm it until now. Seemed unlikely I was gonna meet another archer with dragons any time soon, but knowin' my luck . . ."

All Hanzo can seem to do is nod. “I’m sorry,” McCree adds. “I know it wasn’t the most honest thing to do. Just, with the way things usually go—I got scared, I guess.”

“I suppose I am in no position to lecture you.”

Silence falls between them for a time, until Hanzo finally gathers the nerve to ask, “So what now?”

McCree’s eyes snap to his. He licks his lips. “Well,” he says. “Seems to me that, with all that said and done . . . we’re already pretty well set-up, aren’t we? I don’t want this to end. Sounds like you don’t, either.”

“Of course not,” Hanzo says, perhaps too quickly.

A genuine smile finally breaks across McCree’s face for the first time since Hanzo woke. He reaches for Hanzo’s hand on the bed, clasping tight. “Good,” he says. “‘Cause regardless of all that nonsense, I’ve been head over heels for you for a long time. Think you were always going to be stuck with me.”

Hanzo chuckles weakly, turning his hand to thread his fingers through McCree’s. “There are worse fates,” he says.

McCree lifts their entwined hands and tries to kiss between Hanzo’s knuckles, but his wide grin just results in him pressing his smiling mouth against Hanzo’s fingers. 

—

When Hanzo is released from the medbay the next evening, tired but otherwise much improved, McCree wastes no time in hastening him back to his own dorm. He does not hesitate this time to peel off his shirt, and for the first time Hanzo is free to drink in the full sight of him. He cannot begin to get his fill as he drags his hands down McCree’s chest and belly, traces the lines of his soul tattoo over and over again, leaves kisses in a line from his collarbone to his hips. McCree sighs under the attention, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watches Hanzo’s progress. His hand weaves through Hanzo’s hair at the base of his skull, fingernails scraping deliberately over his tattoo again and again.

After, as they clean up and redress and put themselves back together for dinner, McCree comes up behind him. He wraps his arms tightly around Hanzo’s middle, solid and comforting, and noses against the back of Hanzo’s neck. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the middle of the tattoo and whispers a confession against Hanzo’s skin, and Hanzo leans back against his chest, against the sprawling tattoo that marks McCree as  _ his _ , and smiles.


End file.
